Need
by Sarabibliomania
Summary: He shouldn't want her. But he does. Like a vampire wants blood. Or an alcoholic craves beer. A dying man needs salvation.   He wants her. He craves her. He needs her.


Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. They belong purely to Eric Kripke and now Sera Gamble.  
>This is a one shot I am basing very very VERY loosely off a Supernatural fan fiction I'm writing. Anyone who plans on reading it when I publish it don't think that you know how it's going to go because of what happens here because the two stories are <span>very <span>different.

He shouldn't want her. But he does.

Like a vampire wants blood. Or an alcoholic craves beer. A dying man needs salvation.

He wants her. He craves her. He needs her.

She doesn't know. How could she know when it has become his life's purpose to prevent her from knowing. For keeping everything he needs more then instinct and raw desire under his skin like rusted blades.

Sam doesn't know either. Doesn't notice the way his hands tighten into fists as he brushes a finger through her hair, traces her lips with his. The way whatever he's holding breaks as he absent mindedly runs a hand down her back as she pours over dad's journal, links and entwines her fingers through his.

It's not healthy the way he handles it. The way he chokes down beer until everything is a blurred haze with only her name coherent in his mind. The way he picks up random girls and buries himself in their feel as if he could somehow trick his mind into thinking it was her, believing it was her.

Needing it to be her.

He slept with a waitress once because she had her curled dark hair, the same widened shape to her eyes. He didn't know her name. Couldn't remember it. Especially when he called out a different name, the feel burned to his tongue and the sound twisted through him like heated wire. She left soon after in a huff, sweat still slick against her body and her clothes clutched to her chest.

He didn't care.

She called him out on it sometimes. The women, the beer, the way sometimes he lost control and destroyed whatever they were hunting with such brutality it almost scared him.

Almost.

He always brushed it off with a witty line or a smirk, casually turning the words around and shaping them into a kind of pick up line that he always teased her with. And she would roll her eyes, brushing them off and something, somewhere deep inside of him grew twisted and died.

He walked in on them once. Came back early from a date he couldn't force himself through and found them sprawled between the sheets. Her fingers dug into his sweated back and his face buried to her shoulder in nearly pained thrusts. They quickly got dressed and apologized in amused embarrassment, the flush still painted to her neck and her eyes hidden behind the twisted fall of her hair.

He broke his hand that night. Took a crow bar to the Impala and smashed into the metal until he felt the break and the burned pain and collapsed, cradling it to his chest.

She didn't question why he did it as she fixed his hand. Didn't ask questions or demand answers. Just traced her fingers along his wrist in care as she set and bound it, blowing strands away that fell into her eyes.

It hurt to have her that close to him, touching him as if his entire body didn't drown in the feel of it, burn in the memory. Sam watched with concern, the questions to why he did it clearly played back and forth in his eyes. But he didn't ask them. And he didn't answer.

He watches her sleep sometimes. When he can't sleep himself and he's run over the pattern of the motel ceiling too many times in his head. It's hard not to when her and Sam's bed is so close to his. The thickened quilt of the motel pulled around her and the swell of her breast visible under her tank top, Sam's arm slung around her waist. She looks almost at peace when she is sleeping, almost like she doesn't have nightmares that she sometimes tells him about in the mornings.

He loves watching her like this.

She kissed him once.

They were working a case, following a suspect who seemed all too aware that we were following. She pulled him in close as a cover up, her lips pressed so deep and sweetly to his that he wanted to cry and shatter things with his bare hands all at once.

When she pulled away it was like she was tearing through his skin and her eyes lowered from his, back to the suspect as if nothing had happened. As if his entire body wasn't on fire, twisted and burned like a poison and its cure broken through his veins.

She told Sam about it who laughed, hitting him in the arm and teasing that he better not be stealing his girl away. He forced himself to smile at the words, shrug off the words.

He had never wanted to punch someone so much in his life.

He walked in on her coming out of the shower once. Her dampened hair twisted over her shoulders and water droplets stained over her arms and down her legs, the towel barely hung around her. She didn't seem to mind that he walked in, simply grabbed some clothes and teasingly told him to turn around as she got dressed.

He ran to the nearest bar and lost himself inside a waitress, her back pressed to the bathroom wall. He dug his fingers into the wall as he fucked her, his eyes closed and sweat darkened to his hair as he imagined a different woman, a different name on his lips.

She's told him that she loved him. But like a brother or a friend. She doesn't need to ask the last part but he knows. Knows from the way she teases him, the way she points out woman he should take back to the motel, her knee pressed to Sam's under the table and his fingers caught through hers.

That should make him feel better. But it doesn't. It somehow makes it worse.

He sometimes picks up the girls she suggests, hating himself for looking back over her shoulder as he flirts to see if she is jealous. She also gives him a thumbs up and a smile, Sam's head pressed to her neck and a giggle breaking over her lips.

More often than not the beer in his hand breaks.

Sometimes he drives out in the Impala, breaking the speed limit as it rips down the empty roads until the decrease of gas becomes troubling. He would then pull it to a stop and smash empty beer bottles to the gravel until his hands are cut and bleeding and he collapses sobbing until he retches and can't breathe.

He hates himself for loving her so much.

Hates Sam more for having her when he can't.

Hates her for making him want her more than desire or instinct could allow.

But then she'd smile at him, a gun cocked in her hands and words of encouragement on her lips and he knew he could never hate her.

He loved her too much.


End file.
